Todo Tiene Su Como-Se-Llama

Everyone Is Entitled to One Fatal Mistake

For quite some time I have toyed idly with the idea of posting some of my dabblings in the realm of fiction, and I always talked myself out of it. I both love and despise my own work at the same time, and I never read it without fixing something. I just couldn't bring myself to subjecting something I like, but that I think is horrible, to the criticism and commentary of others. But I love to hear what people think, good or bad.

Anyway, due to my general slowing down of posting content, and the desire to improve on my work and perhaps write something new (I haven't written any new stories in at least two years) I think I'll post some of these. I don't have many that are both short and complete . . . four or five at most, I think. And I'm going to force myself not to include any apologetic or over-explanatory commentary about the stories themselves, as difficult as that is.

They are what they are. Most of them were written about three or four years ago and have had limited editing since. If you care to sit still long enough to finish them and then offer criticisms/compliments/suggestions . . . whatever, then I will be thrilled. If not, this is still just me posting random things I've written. The only difference is that this stuff was composed years before I had a blog instead of on the spot. I don't think any of my short stories are longer than ten pages in MS Word (double-spaced).

This particular story was written during the first semester of my senior year, for English class . . . I am painfully aware of certain flaws in it, but I don't dare read over it thoroughly right now. I'll never get to bed.

The assignment, if I remember correctly, was to write a story that included irony, but it's possible that I just wanted to be ironic and end a story with . . . Well, you'll see. Read on. If you dare.

Everyone Is Entitled to One Fatal Mistake

With a loud snap the time clock punched Hector Bingley’s time card on the “Out” blank. He pulled it out listlessly and slid it back into its slot before trudging out the door and making his way through the factory gates. A sharp, shooting pain in the sole of his foot reminded him once again that he wasn’t getting any younger. Far too many things were reminding him of that these days . . . far too many. The years of long, boring hours on the assembly line were taking their toll on his body, and at age forty-seven he felt sixty years old. And living where he did, that was entirely inappropriate. Florida was a place to go after you aged, not a place to live while you were aging!

Without warning he slipped into his favorite daydream, his only daydream if the truth were known. He imagined himself as a great explorer and treasure hunter, just like his hero, Juan Ponce de Leon of Spain. He had been combing Florida for months, seeking the ultimate prize: The Fountain of Youth, and he had just found it. Laughing and yelling he dove into it, splashing and swimming through the healing waters. Decades of life slipped from his shoulders like so much dead weight, and he could feel the wrinkles of his face smooth. His shiny, balding head sprouted thick crops of hair once again and his false teeth hit the ground with a satisfying crack beside his now useless bifocals, he wouldn’t be needing those anymore. Finally he stepped out of the fountain. He was young again, and he always would be.

A blaring horn brought him back to reality with a jolt as a teenager in a hot rod swerved to miss him. He was standing in the middle of the street several blocks away from the factory, a goofy smile plastered on his face. He sighed, a deep, heavy, hopeless sigh, and made his way back to the sidewalk. If only . . .

He knew the Fountain of Youth existed . . . somewhere. It had to! And Ponce de Leon had found it, right here in Florida. The history books claimed that he had died, but Hector didn’t believe it for a second. Juan had just been keeping his discovery quiet to exploit it for himself. Who knew? The man might still exist somewhere in his eternally youthful state. After Ponce de Leon had faked his own death he could have gone anywhere to live forever. Hector had a theory that if he was still around, he’d be in Florida, guarding his prize. That might explain a few things, such as the number of old people who retired there, for example. Maybe Ponce had ways of quietly advertising to certain aging people, and his income came from their retirement funds. Hector would never tell anyone his theory, of course. They’d have him committed, but you never knew . . .

He walked by a five-story apartment building on the opposite side of the street and paused to listen to a beautiful melody that was wafting down from above. The building looked like an old, converted villa from Florida’s colonial days. A magnificent balcony crowned the top floor. It was square, which was odd for a balcony, and each of the four points held a statue of a wizened human being, bent double from rheumatism or some such thing. There was no railing, another strange feature, and slightly off the balcony’s center there sat a huge black grand piano. An elderly man was playing it, the wild shock of white hair on his head flying crazily in every direction as he threw himself into his music. It was a very good piece. Hector had never heard it before. Suddenly, in the middle of a rising crescendo, the music stopped. The pianist’s hands crashed down on the keys in frustration, producing a sickening cacophony. It didn’t look like he would be playing more anytime soon, so Hector, with another of his famous sighs, continued his painful shuffle down the street. He didn’t even notice the peculiar face peering at him from behind a white lace curtain on the ground floor of the same building. As he rounded the corner the curtain fell back into place again.

***

Maestro Dietrich Stradivarius was upset, angry, frustrated . . . the works. His opus, the finest composition of his life, was lying uncompleted on his piano on the balcony. He could feel the music, beautiful music, marvelous music, floating maddeningly about his head, just out of reach. Now matter how he grasped at it, it wouldn’t come to him. It always stayed in the same place; close enough to make its presence known to him, but too far to be taken hold of. He had spent the last several months hard at work on the first pages of the Concerto. The notes had come slowly, but they had come, feeding themselves from his brain to his fingers as one feeds string to a kite, but he now he was out of string. The rest of the Concerto was trapped up there in his head, buried deep in a corner beyond his reach, and he couldn’t remember ever feeling so maddeningly helpless as he did just then. Perhaps the remainder of the great work was doomed to stay there, stuck up in his head until his dying day and beyond.

With a groan of despair he wheeled the piano through the open French doors and back into his apartment. He told himself once again that he could still hope. The rest of the music would come to him, probably when he least expected, as it had in the past. Granted he had never experienced Writer’s Block before, at least not like this, but he was confident that the music would come. He closed the French doors and bolted them, leaving the room to get himself something to eat.

He tripped lightly down the stairs in an effort to be cheery, and as a pleasant reminder to himself that he could still do that. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, but the years had been kind to him, and he didn’t suffer from most of the ailments that afflicted the ancient.

A voice from behind stopped him as he trod out the door. His landlord’s door was open a crack and his hand poked out holding a letter. The landlord was a quiet sort and kept to himself mostly. In fact, the Maestro couldn’t ever remember actually having seen his face. He probably had . . . surely he had, but his memory was one thing that certainly wasn’t what it used to be. The landlord’s hand was smooth and pale, the hand of a younger man who didn’t get much sun and didn’t work, or need to.

“Mr. Stradivarius? Could you do me the service of mailing this letter. I would be very much obliged if you would.” His voice was high-pitched and thin.

Dietrich plucked the letter from the man’s fingers and mumbled something about “my pleasure.” The landlord didn’t respond, he just shut the door. Dietrich shrugged and walked out. Without any conscious thought his eye fell on the envelope he was carrying. It was addressed to a “Hector Bingley.” The name meant nothing to him, but he noticed from the address that the apartment building where Mr. Bingley lived was only a few blocks away, on the way to his usual dining place. He passed a mailbox, but didn’t insert the letter. He could drop it off on his way by the building, maybe save someone else some time. The day’s mail had already been picked up anyway.

***

Hector walked out of the supermarket with a small bag of groceries, turned the corner and finally arrived at his building. The street was deserted except for a single old man walking ahead of him. The man looked vaguely familiar but Hector wasn’t sure where he’d seen him. He stepped inside his building and popped the mailbox open with his free hand. A pile of bills greeted him, as usual, and he scooped them up and somehow made his way slowly up the stairs.

Going through the mail once he was inside his apartment, he noticed a single envelope which stood out from the rest. The name and address were hand-written, unlike the printed bills and junk mail, and there was no visible return address. Hector tore it open and let the empty envelope drop to the floor. In his hand he held a single page, almost blank. Two words graced the top in a flowing script. “A Gift,” they said. At the bottom, in the same flowing script, there was an address, and in the center there was a small, clear crystal container with a minute amount of water. It was plugged with an equally small crystal stopper. He lifted it up carefully, almost reverently and examined it. The crystal was thick and not easy to break. It, or maybe the water inside it, acted as a prism, catching the white light from the setting sun as it passed through the window and splitting it into every color of the rainbow. The water sparkled alluringly and he unplugged the stopper and took a closer look. The glistening liquid inside begged him to drink the few drops the vial contained. Hector shrugged and guzzled it down in a single sip.

Jolts of electricity shot through his body, tingling in every nerve and pore. He went rigid as the water burned all the way down, finally stopping in the pit of his stomach were he could feel it boiling away. Seconds later the warm glow faded, taking with it every single ache he had. Hector’s eyes went wide with surprise and he rushed over to the mirror. He had to whip off his glasses to see himself, they distorted his now perfect vision. The heavy lines on his face, even though they had felt inches deep a few moments before, were now almost invisible. The silver flecks that had begun to mar his once jet-black hair were gone, fading back into their original color. A sizable chunk of bald spot was now covered too. He looked and felt ten years younger . . . for a few minutes. He was still admiring his young self in the mirror when the first pains returned. A hand went to his back as the familiar ache reappeared unceremoniously. He looked back in the mirror, but his vision was blurred. He put his glasses back on, and immediately noticed his lines fading back into wrinkles and creases. Within a few seconds he felt no different than he had before drinking the water. Somehow, though, he didn’t much care.

Hector had finally found what he wanted: The Water of Life. In fact, it had found him. And he knew where he could get more. He went for his coat. He wouldn’t waste one more second.

***

After supper Dietrich felt different, better even. As he had walked back to his apartment he kept thinking about the Concerto, and he finally decided that the best course of action would be to not think about it at all. When he got back home he wheeled the piano back out onto the balcony, shoved the unfinished Concerto under the bench, and started to play. He played the first thing that came to his head . . . Chopsticks.

***

A familiar song was being played on the balcony when Hector arrived at the villa he had admired a few hours before. He double-checked the address. This was place. He hurried inside quickly as the sharp, lively rhythm of Chopsticks continued above.

A few minutes later he found himself inside a room unlike any he had ever seen before. Wall-to-wall antique art of all kinds was stacked to the ceiling. An old, high-backed chair sat in the middle of the room, turned away from him. A smooth, pale hand appeared from behind it and beckoned. Hector stepped forward, walking around the side of the chair. A young Hispanic man was sitting in it, dressed in a style that was older than most of the art in the room. He had long black hair and a thin dainty mustache which he was stroking lightly with his finger. He gestured to another chair in front of him and Hector sat.

“Greetings, Señor Bingley. I am Jose Ponce de Leon, only son of Juan Ponce de Leon. Do you know who that is?”

“Yes!” Hector gasped breathlessly. “He’s my hero! I have volumes and volumes of books about his exploits!”

“I see. In that case, you understand a great many things already. That is good. I will not have to explain much.” He paused. “I suppose you know all about the Fountain of Youth, then.”

It was not a question, but Hector answered anyway. “Naturally. It is the reason your father is my hero.”

“Hmmm . . .” Jose murmured thoughtfully. “Do you see that door?” He pointed to the right. “Open it and look inside.”

Hector rose unsteadily and ambled up to the door. His shaking fingers found the knob, turned it, and pulled the door open. He stuck his head through the doorway and an involuntary cry of shock escaped him.

***

Five flights up, Dietrich uttered the exact same sound as the rest of his long-awaited Concerto flowed through him and sprouted into his fingers. The music poured from the piano like a waterfall in a rushing stream. He closed his eyes in heavenly bliss and let the music carry him away.

***

“You have the Fountain of Youth in your bathtub?” Hector shrieked in disbelief.

“Nice camouflage, isn’t it?”

“But . . . but it’s a bathtub.”

“I’m aware of that. Take the glass by the sink, fill it full of the water and come sit down.”

Hector did what he said quickly and impatiently.

“I know you’ll want to be on your way to enjoy what I’m giving you here, but first, a warning. My father and I learned the hard way that the Fountain of Youth does not provide eternal life, merely eternal youth.” Jose’s voice was strained and sad.

“What’s the difference?”

“My father, even though he looked like he was twenty-five, was killed by an arrow in a fight with Indians in 1521.”

“Oh . . . I’m sorry.” Hector tried to sound sincere, but after all the guy had been dead for 400 years.

“From this I learned that the gift of life that this water gives is not a gift of invulnerability. You can still die, but you’ll never die of old age.”

“I see.” Hector’s face fell.

“Don’t look so down. You’ll still be young again. Besides, if you take care of yourself you shouldn’t have anything to worry about. I’m still here, aren’t I? Now drink up!”

Hector grinned and tossed off the whole glass in a single massive gulp. The change was evident immediately as the same transformation as before took place again, and then kept going. First ten years dropped off, then twenty. His body melted into the man he had been some twenty-five years before, and he felt even younger. He felt invigorated like he hadn’t felt since . . . well, since he couldn’t remember when. He didn’t remember ever feeling better. An overwhelming joy overtook him as he shot to his feet and pumped Jose’s hand gleefully. With barely a word of thanks or a farewell he was out the door.

***

Dietrich drew out the final chord of his masterwork and drew in a deep breath of contentment. It was perfect, utterly and totally perfect. He reached under the bench and slowly and deliberately drew out his music sheets. He arranged them carefully on the stand in front of him and drew out his pencil, ready to transcribe the fantastic music onto the paper. He placed the pencil on the paper . . . and nothing happened. His finger couldn’t find the note to draw. He stared at it wonderingly. Why wouldn’t it obey? And then his thoughts caught up to him. He couldn’t remember . . . anything. Everything he had just played was utterly gone and there was nothing he could do about it.

***

Hector bounded out onto the street and paused beside the curve, drawing in a deep breath of fresh air. He felt alive again, at long last. Nothing would stop him now. Life’s troubles would never disturb him again.

***

With an animal cry of utterly helpless fury Dietrich lashed out at the mute piano. His hands struck it full force with the strength of months of frustration and anger. The piano took off across the balcony, propelled swiftly along over the slick marble floor. Dietrich gasped in realization and made a lunge for the escaped instrument. He missed.

***

Hector’s head came up at the sound of an anguished scream overhead. He peered upward questioningly. A large dark shape popped over the side of the balcony above him and plummeted straight down. There was a sickening crunch mingled with the discordant din of a smashing piano and Hector crumpled unceremoniously under the weight of the 400 pound music maker.

***

A crowd gathered quickly. It was not a pretty sight. Two legs stuck out from under the shattered piano, which had its own legs splayed outward. One of the onlookers felt a drop of rain and looked up, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Only an old man peering disconsolately over the edge of a balcony high above, one of his hands stretched pleadingly in the general direction of the piano. The spectator moved out from under him and returned his attention to the scene of the accident. No one in the small crowd noticed a pair of white lace curtains drop back into place over a window just a few yards away.

Posted by Jared at February 9, 2005 02:18 AM | TrackBack